I started reading Harry Potter kind of by accident, as one picks up any book. It wasn’t really like I knew what it would do for me. I was about 17 when I read the first book, and about 22 when the story finally sank inside me.
I wasn’t really sure why I loved it so much, I just knew it saved me. I needed something at that point in time to feel…to feel anything. And it gave it to me. And so I grew attached to it the way people grow attached to books and stories. It was my Bible. My best friend. My hope.
Then the last movie came out and I struggled with the reality of what it all meant. The story would only continue through me. The story would no longer be presented to me, I would have to present the story. I wouldn’t be able to let go of it, if I wanted it to live. I’d have to actively remind myself and others that it existed.
And with that came a strange nostalgic comfort. It wasn’t over. It never would be.
I never thought I would feel anything like that again.
One day, a friend of mine talked about a show called Doctor Who. It was the longest-running show in TV history, I remember reading somewhere. It was impressive, but too complicated to understand where the beginning was.
Then on Tumblr I started to hear it be mentioned over and over again. It became a fad, like Harry Potter had, and so many other TV shows. I watched the UK version of Torchwood and thought it was brilliant, the closes to sci-fi I had ever watched and truly enjoyed. I started to know the entire story, the worst spoilers of all, who died and who didn’t, who was who’s wife and if there was a child or not.
I decided I’d give it a go, and watched a few episodes with Eccleston and Tennant and I just couldn’t, I didn’t understand it. Couldn’t get close to it.
But it kept coming back in my face, over and over again, and there was always an interest, always a curiosity to know what this was. A story unlike anything I had ever heard in my life.
So I decided I’d give it a proper try…and started in 1963. I fell in love with Hartnell’s sass and attitude right away. And though the effects were cheap and Susan got on every single one of my nerves, I was hooked right away. It was like it had been with Harry Potter. I had picked something up without realizing what it would mean for me. I saw as many episodes as I could, tried piecing them together through YouTube clips, Netflix videos, and articles. It was Four that reeled me in and made me truly fall in love. It was he that pulled the strings of my heart, never to let go of again.
And today, February 24th, I have arrived at the very most recent Doctor. Eleven.
The regeneration broke my heart, Ten did not want to go. I cried first for him, then for myself. I was at the latest doctor. I would some day be caught up, and my waiting for the next story to unfold before me would be done. Doctor Who would survive, it was not like Harry Potter, the stories would still be given to me…but the end of my journey is close. I am happy that my love will continue for a while. I am happy with the thought that this has gone on for years with very little money, and I have seen the result of what its success has done for it, so I know it will going for quite a while. And even if I am caught up I can watch and re-watch every single series from before.
But I am here, with Eleven. I have met him. I have seen him and the men that he has been. I have seen the women he’s loved and lost. I have seen the men that have been by his side. I have seen his entire story as best as someone from my generation possibly could. I am sad to know the journey is ending, but as Doctor Who has taught me, it will simply regenerate into the beginning of a new journey. It does not have to be death, even if it feels like it. It is simply starting over with a different set of eyes.
And that…well, that… I can do.
Thank you Doctor Who. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.